Desiderium
by Touch of Gray
Summary: They're simply monsters encased in Hume bodies... They're not the people you love. [an ardent longing, as for something lost. Mild BalthierAshe. One shot.]


**d**_ e _**s **_i _**d **_e_** r **_i_** u **_m_

Camping in the Deadlands is a bad idea. Not only is the ground moist and almost quagmire in some places, but the place is haunting, and there's a quality to the air that makes it nearly impossible to even consider sleeping. They defeated the crystalbug and have since recovered from most of the wounds, but there's still such an eerie chill to the air (it seems like it should be muggy and stifling here, the way it is in the Salikawood, but it's cold and still, like a deep breath before a plunge, or a grave). 

Vaan finds some dead branches that haven't yet been swallowed by the marsh and makes a small fire that doesn't hold much warmth, and everyone crowds around it possessively, leaning in as far as possible, trying to alleviate a much deeper cold than in the air. She sits off to the side, staring into the flames, close enough to be touched by some heat, but far enough away that most of her face is in shadow. The dead whisper in the distance. Penelo shudders.

She feels like she has to occupy herself somehow, and has just pulled out her sword to clean it, when Balthier takes a seat on the rotting log next to her. She ignores him, drawing the cloth over her weapon.

For a long time, he doesn't speak, just looks up, even though the fog obscures the sky completely, so there's nothing to see. She won't ask him what he's looking at, partly because she's stubborn and a little mad at him (for various reasons), but partly because she doesn't really want to know. Maybe Balthier can see something in the sky that she can't. That would make (some) sense, considering his profession. And there's something hopeful about that thought.

"At least it isn't raining," He says quietly, and looks over at her. "Admiring your weapon, I take it?"

Suddenly, she realizes that she hasn't moved the cloth since he looked up, and hastens to finish what she's started, glad of the shadow so he can't see what might be a blush. But princesses do not blush.

He sighs a bit, "If it were raining, this place would be even worse than it is. It's already a swamp, could you imagine?"

"I don't want to talk about it," She sounds like a petulant child and knows it, and doesn't care. This place leaves a bad taste in her mouth.

"Then what shall we discuss?"

"I don't want to talk."

"Touchy, aren't we?" He stretches. She stares resolutely at a spot on the ground, unwilling to continue their conversation. Basch seems to be cooking over the little fire, but not having much luck (she doesn't want to tell him, but Basch is not exactly the best cook in the world. In fact, even Vaan's Carrot soup they were forced to eat while wandering the Golmore Jungle after completing a hunt is better than most of Basch's cooking. But he likes cooking, and none of them really know how to tell him to stop. Usually, Penelo takes over, but tonight, she looks too worn-out, or worried about something to bother.)

They sit like that for a long time; absolutely quiet. She's bored with cleaning her weapon - it didn't really need it, anyway. Most of the enemies here tend to, well, _slide_ off metal, and none of them still have blood, and it suddenly occurs to her that she's been destroying the remains of many of her once-subjects. Suddenly, the image of Rasler's head, impaled upon her sword, leaps to mind, and she shudders violently. Balthier glances at her. She refuses to look up.

"Troubling thoughts?"

"Nothing I can't handle." She replies tersely, still trying to abandon her dead husband's eyes -

"Are you sure? A place like this tends to _breed_ unpleasant thoughts."

- his face is accusing, but not really because it's impaled on a sword -

"You look rather pale."

- but because she's been so busy lately, she's forgotten to miss him, except when she dreams about him every now and then. What kind of widow is she? Yes, it's been two years, but he was supposed to be this constant part of her life, supposed to be there forever, and now he's dead, and she hardly thinks about him anymore. Instead, she chats with criminals while banshees wail in the background and a traitor cooks her meals (that's unfair to Basch, and she knows it, but can't stop the accusations).

"Ashe?"

"Hmm?" She looks up suddenly. Balthier is watching her, looking worried.

"Are you sure you're all right? You've been staring at that stone for the past five minutes."

She stares blankly at him, almost forgetting who he is for a moment, before coming back to land, blinking quickly and breathing as though she's run a marathon. "Yes, I'm... I'm fine. Just... I don't like this place." She finishes lamely, looking back at her sword before realizing that she'd rather not see something that can kill at the moment, and very suddenly turns back to Balthier, who raises an eyebrow.

"It's not very friendly, is it?" He says conversationally.

"No. No, it isn't. I keep thinking there's something... _watching_ me."

"Well, if that's the problem..." He trails off, grinning, but she's not in the mood to deal with his flirting. She glares at him, as if to say grow up, and he continues, more seriously. "I think this hunt is wearing all of us thin. Weren't we supposed to be in the Necrohol by now?"

"Yes, and we'll probably be staying there tomorrow night, and it will be worse." She closes her eyes, unwilling to think further about it.

"Undoubtedly. So, enjoy the freedom while you can. At least here, you do sometimes get a breeze that isn't a dead creature leaping upon you while you sleep." He doesn't seem at all disturbed by this image. He watches her for a moment, before continuing, very quietly, "They aren't _people_ anymore, Ashe. They're simply monsters encased in Hume bodies."

She doesn't reply.

"...They are not the people you love."

"I don't recall saying they were." She replies suddenly, feverishly turning back to her weapon, trying not to think. Anger is a good escape route; she's used it many times before. Balthier, however, seems immune to her temper.

"You didn't have to. It could be worse, I suppose."

"Yes, they could be recognizable." She says almost hysterically, and he turns to her sharply.

"They could be able to speak."

She doesn't want to think about what they would say if they could, so she changes the subject. "How far are we from the Necrohol?" Not exactly the farthest she can get from the topic, but it will do. He takes the hint, and backs off.

"About half a day's march, I think. We wasted a good bit of time with Vaan's detour into the mountain."

"He didn't know what was up there." She can't explain why she's defending Vaan, because she was absolutely furious with him earlier, even though she knew then it wasn't his fault. She simply needed someone to blame (for what, though, she can't quite explain).

"Perhaps not. But this would be considerably easier if we had a map. If I could get into the _Strahl_, I could probably find one, but there's no point now."

"If you have maps on your airship, why do we comb every place we enter to find one?"

He smirks at her. "I don't recall you ever asking _me_ if _I_ had a map of the Sochen Cave Palace - which I do, by the way, and better than the one we found."

"Well, you should have said something!"

"But the look on your face when it turned out to be so close to the entrance - as Penelo, I believe, suggested - was rather worth the extra effort." She glares at him, and stands abruptly, fully prepared to give him a tongue lashing, when she realizes that from his position... She sits just as suddenly. "Undecided, are we?" He says with a hint of amusement that only infuriates her more.

She casts around for another subject to talk about, and lands on one. "What _are_ we hunting, anyway?"

"Well, I suppose that depends. What do you want to find?" He smiles at her - not a grin or a smirk, but a genuine _smile_ - and walks away.

She watches him go, feeling strangely empty from somewhere around her heart.

_Until I find something more valuable..._

Ignoring the pit of her stomach, she joins Basch and Vaan at the fire, and takes a bowl of Basch's (terrible) soup. And when she dreams, for the first time in two years, it isn't Rasler's face she sees.  
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(A/N: Yuck. I can't write Balthier to save my life. I wanted to make a crack about potholders, but it seemed too out-of-place. And WTF? about this flipping from horror to humor? I don't know. I really intended it to be much more serious than it ended up.)


End file.
